Dreaming of Dreams
by ConsumeTheVoid
Summary: Had to do this for a Project. Not Very fluffy, but I still like it. We had to mention/include a Renaissance Artist/their work in some way and I chose Michelangelo.


Disclaimer: Characters/Artists etc not mine. I only own the plot.

Dreaming of Dreams by Anon007

Matthew yawned, eyes taking in the fresco on the ceiling in disinterest.

Normally, he supposed, The Sistine Chapel would be quite enough to keep anyone's boredom at bay. But, alas, exhaustion was not something to be trifled with.

In an effort to keep himself from falling asleep on his feet, the Canadian moved to survey the painting on the alter wall of the Chapel.

The Caption below read:

' _The Last Judgment_ '

 _Created by Michelangelo (_ _6 March, 1475 – 18 February, 1564) by request of Pope Paul III._

 _It is centered around the dominant figure of Christ, captured in the moment when…_

And his eyes glazed over.

"I must've read this at least five times already." He murmured to himself.

He practically had it memorized by now.

'Figures were originally painted nude and the Council of Trent were a bunch of prudes who liked sticking their noses in other people's business. Hired Daniele de Volterra to paint drapes over them after Michelangelo died…'

It became very boring after Read Number 5.

So much for keeping himself awake.

'Ugh. Exactly where is Alfred when you need him?!' he thought semi-angrily.

Giving another lung-draining yawn, he headed outside to give the blond a call.

Maybe the cold air would wake him up.

**xx**

A half-an-hour later, he concluded that while cold air might wake someone up, cool air – which was what was blowing here- only made people sleepier.

'Well it makes _me_ sleepier, anyways.'

Stretching while simultaneously ignoring the annoyed looks of several passers-by, he tried Alfred's cell again.

Fortunately the other man picked up after a few rings.

"Hey Matt."

And before Matthew could ask.

"Dude, I know you're tired but I am still stuck in traffic. Although we kinda moved up. Ten more minutes? Please?"

He could practically see the obnoxious American's puppy dog eyes.

"Fine." Matthew said, sighing. "But if I fall asleep, you're carrying me to the car and up to the hotel room."

The Black Eye he'd given the American (by complete accident, of course) made this demand seem very reasonable, despite what others may believe.

Thankfully (for Alfred, anyways), Matthew managed to stay awake long enough to get back to their hotel room.

At the sight of ('God sent.' Matthew thought) bed, the Canadian ran over and collapsed onto it. He fell asleep in mere seconds.

"You do this because you must, Daniele."

'Wait - what?' Matthew thought? Who said that? Who's Daniele?

Opening his eyes, he found himself gazing upon a man swathed in some rather fancy robes. Regal and encrusted in jewels.

Who was...?

Oh, of course. How could he have forgotten? Who was Matthew, anyways?

"But, sire," he protested, lowering his eyes from the man seated in front of him. He mentally chastised himself for looking up in the first place. Perhaps it was the shock from the particulars of his order?

Could be.

"My beloved teacher - May God rest his soul - most assuredly did not want his Masterpiece altered." He continued, trying to appeal to the elder.

"I understand your hesitance, my child." The man spoke, his voice, a touch softer now. "But it was most dishonest to, in such an honest place, to have painted so many nude figures, who so dishonestly show their shame. It is not a work for a Chapel of The Pope, but for stoves and taverns."

The shock of hearing such slur being thrown at his deceased Master made him gasp audibly.

"I am sure it was not his intention." Was quickly said in defense. "He was sown and reaped for a different time. His ways of thinking (at his old age, especially) are to be expected. However,"

A pause here, perhaps to quell whatever protests Daniele dared not utter.

"We now are more enlightened, so to speak. The Dignity of Our Lord And His Angels must be preserved. And so I beseech you, Daniele, correct that which your Renowned and Honored Master, could not."

What could he say, to that?

(In all honesty, he reasoned, he could say a lot. Most of which was decidedly not in His Reverend's favor. But he dared not.)

Instead he said, "I understand, Your Holiness."

And that was that.

"-att? Dude, it's noon! Wake up, or you're gonna miss Lunch!"

What?

"C'mon dude. Feliciano made pasta!"

Who?

And, as if he had been struck with a mallet (or smacked with Gabriel's Trumpet), he remembered.

Raising his head from the blessedly soft pillow, Matthew wondered, 'What The Hell?'

"Dude, you ok?"

He blinked his eyes at the worried tone.

After putting on the glasses that were handed to him, his dear brother came into focus, a worried frown on his face.

Matthew nodded, speechless.

"Ok...see you downstairs?"

Sighing, the Canadian nodded and waved him off.


End file.
